Defying Death

Defying Death
D’var Torah for Parashat Chukat
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman


Dedicated to the memory of Barbara Levine, z”l


Parashat Chukat, Numbers 19:1-22:1, lists a series of tragic events that befall the Israelites on their way to the Land of Israel: Miriam dies; Aaron dies; and Moses, following a terrible bout with bitterness, anger and even momentary loss of faith, is told he will never enter the Promised Land along with the people he had led there.
As though in anticipation—and quite possibly with the intent of providing in advance the remedy for all the pain that must follow these events—the portion begins with a description of the ritual of the Red Heifer.

The sacrifice of the Red Heifer—a completely red cow, unblemished, possibly as young as a calf, certainly one that never has never been yoked to a plow—was meant to purify a person who had come in contact with a dead body. First commanded to Elazar, Aaron’s son who was elevated to his father’s position of High Priest after Aaron’s death, the ritual was one of the most intricate of all sacrifices. Obviously it was meant to counter the deep pain of loss and to ease the survivor’s reentry into the community.

A rare animal, that unblemished, perfectly red heifer! So rare, in fact, that according to one Talmudic sage, Rabbi Meir, the ritual was performed only seven times in all of Israel’s ancient history. According to other rabbis, it was actually offered nine times, with the tenth expected to be performed by the Messiah when he arrives.

As part of the ritual, the ashes of the sacrifice were mixed with fresh water (mayyim chayyim—“living waters”) and then sprinkled on the individual/s who had been touched by the death. Symbolically, the mixture represents the fusion of death and life. Its power stems from the profound understanding that a large part of our psychological and spiritual well being is dependent on the acceptance of death and life as parts of a larger whole.

Each of us experiences life in a unique and individual way. Similarly, we react to a close death with our own personal mix of feelings. Shock, pain, guilt, anger—and sometimes other emotions as well—often combine into a tangled web that we find difficult to extricate ourselves from. The journey back to life that each of us must then undergo is equally complex. But if we are to keep on existing as functioning, contributing members of society, we must learn to untangle our emotions and keep them under control.


During the years of the Holocaust, my father, of blessed memory, lived a fulfilling life in Israel. Building houses, paving roads and planting orange groves were to him the realization of the dreams and wishes of the entire Jewish People. Unbeknownst to him, however, during that same time his family was experiencing a different fate in Europe. Following the end of the war, my father received a letter from his brother. The uncle I never met wrote this letter as he was about to be deported to Auschwitz. The story he related was of the heroism, misery and death of my father’s entire immediate family— father and mother, another brother, a beloved sister.

By some coincidence, another person who lived on the same kibbutz received a similar letter on the same day. This person slashed his wrists after reading it.

My father swore to keep on living.

Many Holocaust survivors lost their faith in God during those terrible years, a phenomenon that continues with many Israelis to this day. They see themselves as part of the ongoing history; many even carry on the traditions and culture of Judaism. However, for them there is no God. Only life.

Of course, there were also those who held on to their faith, whose belief must have been shaken but who resisted living a life without God.

Yet others assimilated, hiding their past and their true identity.

How we relate to the tragedies around us and to the pain that comes in their wake may differ from one individual to another. What parashat Chukat (“The Law”) teaches is that we can best defy death by infusing purpose and meaning into our every breathing moment. Of course, this isn’t so simple. The challenge of bitterness and sorrow is sometimes too heavy a burden for us to bear. Personal tragedies have a way of changing us forever. Meaning is often lost in the confusion and disorder that ensue.

But that is precisely why the Red Heifer ritual was ordained: To give us a way to overcome our sorrows. Recognizing that life and death are parts of a larger whole is the first step. Immersing our bodies in a pool of fresh water, a mikveh, is the final rung. By engaging in this mitzvah, we let the blessing that is water surround us, comfort us, enfold us in its embrace.

The powerful force of life within us is kindled by the performance of mitzvot—the commandments. We overcome the challenge of death and chaos by bringing order and sanctity into life—ours as well as others’.

In a paper that my son, Jonathan, recently submitted, he wrote: “We comprehend the world by discovering what it is not, emerging from a life of chaos to a life of order and truth. It is impossible to exist without our counterparts. Without the other, we would never know the self. Without death, we would never know life.”

We challenge death when we permit the memory of our dead to become a blessing rather than a burden; when we dedicate the remainder of our own days to living a life of love, justice and sanctity. That is the significance of the well-digging song that appears near the end of this week’s portion: “Spring up, O well! All of you sing to it” (Num. 21:17). By the performance of mitzvot, by living a life of meaningful interaction with all around us, we live to the fullest. It is so that our life becomes the well that the Torah sings of, a source of blessing to all life around us.


©2011 Boaz D. Heilman